Thursday, December 01, 2016

Coffee Robber

Every morning at exactly - exactly - 10:30, I make coffee. Sully's nap time is 10:45, so by the time I'm settled in the office (10:50-10:55ish), the coffee is drinking temperature.

Today was the same. I gave the Sullsmeister a blueberry muffin and went about boiling the water,  grinding the beans, selecting the mug (the 'right' mug choice is different from day to day, of course, and is dependant on many almost subconscious variables). Sullivan watched me and questioned everything, because that's what toddlers do.

"What's it doing now?"
"What're you doing now?"
"Is it blooming?"
"Is it tasty?"
"Can I smell it?"

Then he hopped down from his stool and I left the french press to do its thing on the counter while I tucked him into bed, stopping for a second on my way into his bedroom to reply to a text message.

And when I came back into the now-silent kitchen to retrieve my coffee and retreat into the office...the french press was gone.

Without a trace. Gone!

I retraced my steps; I stood in front of the grinder, rested my hand on top of it. I dragged my finger along the countertop to the kettle, laid my other hand on the counter where I'd poured the water into the press. It was still warm.

My brain always says, "Robbers!" first. I don't know why, but it does. When we're laying in bed at night and hear a creak in the hallway, my brain yells, "Robbers!" and I sit straight up in bed with my heart beating fast, and Barclay says, "Not robbers," because he knows by now what my brain says even if my mouth doesn't also say it.

And so, too, as I stood there with my hand on the warm countertop, my brain said, "Robbers!"

But it seems like a very cinematic kind of robber inhabits my thought life. The kind of robber that would break in and take my coffee and then I'd turn and he'd be standing there drinking it out of my carefully-selected mug with a smug smirk on his thieving face. He'd be dressed in black pants and a black turtleneck and he'd be wearing a black toque, too. And he'd shoot me.

Welcome to my brain, everyone. Everything ends with a robber shooting me. For real, it does.

But there was no robber, and no other explanation. Just a warm spot on the counter where my french press had been. I stood there for a long time before I noticed the blanket on the floor with a french press-shaped bump under it.


My brain needs to learn to say "Sully!" first, before "Robbers!"

I pulled back the blanket, and there it was. Full literally to the brim, not a drop spilled.

The percolated crime.